Need mike to do one of those whats in my bag videos
đđ literally. get him on vogueâs in the bag NOW
It viscerally pains me whenever someone says Tashi pushes Art to do tennis. Pushes him to perform on that level specifically because she wasn't able to. Not only is just a bad take on the characters, depriving Art of autonomy and Tashi of nuance, but also...do people not realize how painful it would be for her to see that? to be close to every achievement she knew she would have reached in half of the time, and knowing she can't even claim it for her own? It's masochistic just to read, and Tashi is many things (strong and ambitious, to name a few) but never masochistic. She starts to coach Art because he asks for it, she continues because he wants it. It is a mutual choice, one that ends up hurting both of them in their own way, but still a mutual decision.
Whatever pleasure some people like to make it seem like she'd gain from pushing Art to his brink is truly nonexistent.
ava. ava. ava. ava. ava. ava. ava. ava. ava.
a/n: i have maternal instincts for patrick zweig in the sense that i want to bear his children. had an idea and had to get it out literally tonight
warnings: SMUT 18+, pregnancy mention, not proofread
Thereâs a knock at the door that doesn't belong to Sunday.
You know the rhythm of your mailmanâs hands, the two quick taps of the UPS guy, the heavy slap of your neighborâs fist when heâs locked himself out again. But thisâthis knock is soft. Hesitant. Like it doesnât want to be heard.
You set Leviâs plate downâhalf-eaten grilled cheese, blueberries arranged in a smiley faceâand pad over barefoot. You glance through the peephole.
And your heart stutters.
Patrick.
You havenât seen him in four years, and yet, there he is, standing in the yellow hallway light like a memory that refused to stay dead. The light buzzes above him, casting long shadows across the floor, washing him in a hue too warm for how cold it feels. Your stomach flips. Your knees lock. Seeing him again is like stepping into a dream with teethâfamiliar and sharp all at once. He looks olderâleaner, scruffier, more hollow around the eyes. A duffel bag slung over one shoulder. His hands twitch at his sides, curling and uncurling, like he's not sure whether to knock again or bolt down the hall and disappear.
You open the door slowly. The air between you is thick and sour with things unsaid.
He speaks your name like a confession. Soft. Sacred.
Your voice doesnât come. Your stomach tightens. Your throat burns.
And then, behind youâ
âMama?â Leviâs voice, high and curious, drifts out from the kitchen. âMama, whereâd you go?â
Patrickâs entire face changes. He stiffens, like someone just knocked the wind out of him. His eyesâthose same eyes that used to kiss every inch of your skinâdart past you.
And then he sees him.
Tiny feet padding across hardwood. A flash of soft brown curls and wide, blinking eyes. Your son. His son.
âIs thatâ?â Patrick breathes, but the question dies on his lips.
You step halfway in front of Levi, like instinct, like muscle memory. Like heartbreak.
âHis name is Levi,â you say. âHeâs four. He likes dinosaurs and peanut butter and books with flaps. Heâs shy at first but never stops talking once he starts. And he thinks thunder is just the sky saying 'I love you' too loud.â
Patrickâs mouth parts. Closes. Opens again.
âIââ Heâs not crying, but his voice sounds like it wants to be. âI didnât know how to come back.â
âI didnât ask you to.â
Silence.
âMama,â Levi whispers, wrapping his arms around your leg, looking up at Patrick with open, trusting eyes. âWhoâs that?â
Your heart breaks cleanly in two.
You look at Patrick. Let him drown in it.
âThatâs no one, baby,â you lie. âJust someone I used to know.â
---
Patrick always used to knock on your window, never your door.
The first time he did it, you thought it was a rock or a branch. The second time, you nearly screamed. The third time, he was already halfway in your room, grinning, breathless, tasting like cigarettes and strawberry gum.
âYou should really lock your window,â he said, pulling you in by the waist.
âYou should really stop breaking in,â you answered, but your smile gave you away.
Those were the good days. The days when he was still fire and promise and you believed you were the only one who saw the man behind the racket. When he played like he had something to prove and kissed you like he had something to lose.
When the world hadnât taken his shine yet.
You lay together in your tiny bed, limbs tangled, the night soft around you. He whispered dreams into your collarbone. You traced his jaw with your fingertips like a prayer. He said heâd win for you. Said you made everything feel less heavy.
And you believed him.
Even as the losses came. Even as the press called him a burnout. Even as he lashed out, shut down, pulled away.
Until one night, you held up a stick with two pink lines, and he couldnât even look you in the eye.
âI canât be this,â he said. âI canât be someoneâs dad when I donât even know who the fuck I am anymore.â
You begged him to stay. You told him love would be enough.
He left anyway.
The door slammed so hard the windows rattled. You stood there, frozen, stick in hand, the silence ringing louder than any scream.
It wasnât just the leaving. It was what he took when he left. The belief that things could still be okay. The sound of his laugh echoing through your walls. The security of two toothbrushes in the cup by the sink.
He didn't say goodbye. He didn't say I love you. He just looked at you like you were the one hurting him, and walked out like he had somewhere better to be.
You didn't sleep that night. You laid in the bed where he used to lie, and wondered what was so unlovable about needing him.
In the weeks after, you didnât tell anyone. You couldnât say it out loud, not yet. Not until you had something to show for all the ache.
You kept your hand over your belly every night, like a promise. Like maybe, if you held it long enough, the ache would shift into something softer. You whispered into the darkness what you never said aloud: that you hoped the baby wouldnât inherit the hollow. That you prayed they would never learn the weight of being left. You imagined holding them for the first time, imagined the sound they might makeâlaughter, a cry, a breath taken for the first time and given to you. Some nights, your palm rose and fell with the gentle flutter of movement beneath your skin, and you let yourself believe that maybe you werenât completely alone. That maybe something was listening.
If he wouldn't stay, you would.
The pregnancy was not kind. Morning sickness that didnât stop in the morning, aches in places you didnât know could ache, and a hollow, gnawing loneliness that settled behind your ribs like mold. There was no one to rub your back when the cramps came. No one to hold your hand at appointments. You learned to read ultrasound screens like maps to a place you were terrified to reach alone.
You taped the first photo to the fridge and stared at it through tears. A blurry, black-and-white smudge. Proof. Anchor. Punishment.
You bought a secondhand crib off Facebook Marketplace and put it together yourself, swearing softly when the screws wouldnât line up. Painted the walls a soft sage green, not because you liked it, but because it felt like the kind of color people chose when they still believed in peace.
At night, you whispered to your belly. Told him stories about heroes. About bravery. About love that stayed.
You never said Patrickâs name aloud, but some nights, when the air was too still and the weight of it all was too much, you dreamed of him walking through the door. You dreamed of forgiveness. Of soft apologies and strong arms and maybeâs that could still be real.
And then youâd wake up alone. And cry in the shower where no one could hear.
You didnât get flowers when Levi was born. There was no one pacing outside the delivery room, no hands gripping yours through contractions, no voice telling you it was going to be okay.
But you did it. You screamed him into the world, heart breaking open and filling all at once.
And when they placed him on your chest, tiny and warm and blinking up at you like you were the only thing he knewâ
That was the first time in months you remembered what it felt like to be loved without conditions.
Motherhood came at you like a tidal wave: no warning, no mercy. The nights were the worst. Not just because of the crying, but because of the silence in between. When the world went still and you were left alone with your thoughts, your fears, your memories. You held Levi in your arms like he was both shield and sword.
You learned the patterns of his breathing, the way his body curled into yours like heâd been there before, in another life. You learned to eat with one hand, sleep with one eye open, cry without making a sound.
The first time he smiled, it was crookedâjust like Patrickâs. It hit you so hard you had to sit down. You laughed and sobbed into his blanket and told yourself it didnât mean anything. That it was just muscle memory. A coincidence. Nothing more.
But everything reminded you of him. The curve of Leviâs jaw. The way he furrowed his brow in sleep. The quiet intensity in his gaze when he was focused on somethingâlike building blocks or pulling the catâs tail. He was made of you, yes. But he was stitched together with pieces of a man who had vanished.
You tried to be enough. Every bath time became a ritual. Every bedtime story a litany. Every scraped knee a prayer.
You never let Levi see you cry. You waited until he was asleep, until his breaths came soft and steady, until the lights were out and the apartment felt like a strangerâs house. Then you let the grief in. Let it climb into bed beside you like an old friend.
There were days you hated Patrick. Hated him for leaving. For making you strong when all you wanted was to lean. For making you lie when Levi asked why he didnât have a daddy like the other kids at the park.
You always said the same thing: "Some people take a little longer to find their way."
And then you held him tighter. Because you knewâwhen Levi looked at you like you hung the stars, when he clapped after you made pancakes, when he said, âMama, I love you more than dinosaursââyou knew youâd do it all again.
Even the heartbreak. Even the waiting.
Even the door that never knockedâuntil today.
---
He comes back on a Tuesday. Youâre still in your work-from-home clothesâsoft pants, yesterdayâs sweatshirt, hair twisted into something barely holding. Levi is at school, and the silence in the apartment feels like a held breath.
When you open the door, Patrickâs hands are stuffed into the pockets of his coat. His eyes flick up, then down, like heâs not sure where to look. Heâs shaved. Mostly. Still looks like he hasnât slept.
âI didnât want to do this in front of him,â he says.
You nod once. Then step aside.
He walks in slowly, like the space might bite. You close the door behind him and lean against it, arms folded. He turns in the center of your living room, gaze moving across the walls like they might tell him what he missed. Thereâs a drawing Levi made of a green scribbled dinosaur taped beside the thermostat. A tiny sock abandoned near the coffee table. A photograph on the bookshelfâyour smile tight, Leviâs toothy and bright.
Patrick presses his lips together. Doesnât say anything. The silence stretches between you like a string pulled too tight, fragile and humming with things that might snap if touched. He stares at the walls, the crumbs on the floor, the drawing of a green dinosaur taped beside the thermostat like itâs a museum relic of a life he wasnât invited to. Every breath he takes feels like it costs him something.
You donât either.
He turns to you, finally. "I donât know where to start."
"Start with why youâre here."
His jaw flexes. He looks down, then up again. "Because I never stopped thinking about you. Because I thought leaving would protect you. Because I hated the version of me I was becoming, and I didnât want him to ever know that man."
"You donât get to talk about him like you know him."
The words come fast. Sharp. You werenât planning to say them, but theyâre out before you can stop them. Patrick flinches like they cut deep.
You swallow. Try again. Quieter.
"You left. And we stayed. Thatâs the only truth that matters."
Patrick nods. Doesnât argue.
"I want to be in his life," he says. "If you'll let me. IâI know I have no right to ask. But Iâm asking. Anyway."
You look at him for a long time. Long enough for your throat to ache. For your eyes to blur.
You think about Leviâs face when he colors in the sun yellow every time. The way he runs down the hall with his shoes on the wrong feet. The way he says, mama, mama, look, like youâre the only one in the world who ever truly sees him.
You nod, once. Slowly.
Patrickâs breath catches.
"Youâll start as a stranger," you say. "Youâll earn your way back in. Brick by brick. Word by word. I wonât let you hurt him."
"I wonât," he promises. And you almost believe him.
You point to the couch. "Sit. Iâll make coffee."
And he does. And you do. And for the first time in four years, the apartment doesnât feel quite so haunted.
---
The change is slow. Measured. Like the seasons shifting before the trees notice.
Patrick starts showing up more often. Not just when he says he will, but earlier. With snacks. With books for Levi. With hands that fold laundry without asking. Sometimes you find your dishes already washed. Sometimes he takes the trash out without a word.
You donât trust it. Not at first. Not really.
But Levi laughs more. Sleeps easier. Starts drawing pictures of three people instead of two.
Patrick never pushes. Never raises his voice. Never tries to reclaim what he left. He plays the long gameâquiet, consistent, present. And that consistency starts to chip away at your defenses in places you didnât know were still cracked.
You catch yourself watching him. The way he kneels to tie Leviâs shoes. The way he listensâreally listensâwhen your son talks about dinosaurs or clouds or how loud the sky can get when itâs excited. You hear the soft laugh in Patrickâs chest when Levi calls thunder a love letter. You feel it in your bones.
You try not to let it in.
One afternoon, while Levi is still at school, Patrick asks if you want to take a walk. Just around the block. Clear your head.
You almost say no. Almost slam the door of your heart before it even creaks open. But you grab your coat anyway.
You walk in silence. Leaves crunching underfoot. He stays a step behind, like he doesnât want to crowd your space. The wind cuts sharp through the collar of your jacket.
Out of nowhere, he says, âI shouldâve stayed.â
You stop walking.
He keeps going for a few steps before he notices, then turns around.
âI know thatâs not enough. I know it changes nothing. But I did love you. I stillââ He stops himself. Looks away.
You donât realize youâre crying until you taste salt.
You press the sleeve of your jacket to your eyes, angry at the weakness, angry at the memory of who you were before. Angry that some part of you wants to believe him.
âI canât do this again,â you whisper. âI canât survive loving you twice.â
He takes a step closer. Doesnât touch you.
âYou donât have to. You donât have to do anything. Iâll love you from a distance if I have to. Iâll show up. Iâll keep showing up. I justâneeded you to know.â
You shake your head, stumbling backward. The tears come harder now. Not the gentle kind. The ragged, breathless, body-buckling kind.
You donât even remember falling to your knees, but suddenly youâre on the ground, sobbing into your hands. All of itâyears of holding it together, of being strong, of never letting anyone see the messâit all spills out.
And then heâs there.
He doesnât touch you. Not right away. He kneels beside you, his hands palm-up on his thighs, waiting. Quiet. Steady. And somehow, thatâs worse. That heâs learned how to wait. That heâs here.
You want to scream at him. You want to collapse into him. You want to run.
But mostly, you want to be held.
And after a long moment, you let him.
You wake up the next morning expecting silence.
Itâs muscle memory nowâwaking before the sun, padding into the kitchen with half-lidded eyes and heavy limbs, bracing for another day of doing it all on your own.
But the apartment doesnât greet you with emptiness.
Thereâs the soft clatter of dishes in the sink. The low hum of someone speakingâgentle, amused.
You freeze in the hallway, bare feet pressed to cold tile, heartbeat thudding in your throat.
And then you hear it.
Patrickâs voice. "Okay, buddy, but the cereal goes in first. Not the milk. Trust me on this one."
Leviâs giggle echoes like sunlight in a room too small to harbor his birghtness.
You move forward slowly, quietly, until youâre standing just beyond the edge of the kitchen. Patrick is crouched beside Levi at the counter, helping him pour cereal into a chipped blue bowl. Heâs still in yesterdayâs hoodie, hair a mess, barefoot like he belongs there.
He doesnât see you at first. Heâs too focused on Levi, steadying the carton as milk splashes too close to the rim. Thereâs something soft in his posture. Something heartbreakingly domestic.
Levi notices you first. "Mama!"
Patrick straightens immediately. His eyes meet yours. Thereâs a flicker of panic there, quickly masked.
"Morning," he says, voice quiet.
You nod, swallowing down whatever this feeling isâthis lump of disbelief and longing and something dangerously close to hope.
"I didnât want to wake you," he adds. "Levi asked for cereal and⌠I thought I could help."
You look at your son, cheeks full of sugar and joy.
You look at Patrick, standing in your kitchen like itâs sacred ground.
And for the first time, you donât feel like running.
---
The days start to stack.
Patrick picks Levi up from school on Fridays. He folds the laundry you forget in the dryer. He learns how you take your coffee without asking and starts leaving it on the counterâright side of the mug facing out, handle turned the way you like it. He hums sometimes when he cleans up, soft and aimless. It makes your chest ache.
You fall into rhythms again. Not like before. Slower. Cautious. But real.
One evening, he stays later than usual. Leviâs fallen asleep on the couch mid-cartoon, a stuffed dinosaur clutched in one arm. Youâre washing dishes. Patrick dries.
Your hands brush once.
Twice.
By the third time, neither of you pulls away.
You look up. His eyes are already on you.
Something lingers thereâwarm and pained and dangerous.
You open your mouth to say something, anything, but he speaks first.
âI miss you.â
The plate slips from your hand into the sink. It doesnât break, but the splash feels final.
âI canât,â you say quickly, too quickly.
âI know,â he says. âBut I do.â
You dry your hands and turn away, pressing your palms flat to the counter to steady yourself, trying to remember how to breathe like you used toâbefore he walked back in.
âYou donât get to say that to me like it means nothing,â you whisper. âLike you didnât leave. Like I didnât have to scrape my life back together alone.â
âI know I donât deserve it.â
âThen stop acting like you do.â
Heâs quiet for a long moment. When he speaks again, his voice is low. âYou think I havenât punished myself every day since?â
You spin around, suddenly angry. âAnd what, Iâm supposed to forgive you because you feel bad? Because you missed a few birthdays and now you want back in?â
âNo,â he says, stepping closer. âYouâre not supposed to do anything. But Iâm here. Iâm not running this time.â
âYou broke me, Patrick.â Your voice cracks. âAnd now you want to build something new on the ruins like itâs nothing.â
Heâs in front of you now. Too close. The space between you charged, buzzing.
âI donât think itâs nothing,â he says. âI think itâs everything.â
Your breath catches. The air shifts.
His hand liftsâhesitatesâthen cups your jaw.
And you let him.
Because the truth is, youâve wanted this. Wanted him. Even if it terrifies you.
His lips brush yours, tentative, like a question. When you donât pull away, it deepens. He kisses you like he remembers. Like he regrets. Like heâs starving.
You back into the counter. His hands find your waist. Yours find his hair. You pull him closer.
Itâs messy. Itâs breathless. Itâs years of anger and ache colliding in one impossible kiss.
When you finally break apart, his forehead presses to yours.
âI still love you,â he breathes.
And you close your eyes.
Because maybe, just maybe, you still do too.
---
He kisses you again, harder this time.
But itâs different now. Slower. Like mourning. Like worship. He takes your hand, and you follow, barefoot through the dark.
The two of you stumble back toward the bedroom, the one you once shared, where his cologne used to cling to the pillows and laughter used to live in the walls. Now it smells like lavender detergent and your sonâs shampoo. Now it holds the weight of everything thatâs happened since.
He kicks the door shut behind you with a soft thud, and the silence that follows is thick with ghosts.
You lie down first. He joins you like heâs afraid the bed might refuse him.
Your mouths find each other again, and itâs like no time has passed, and also like every second is a wound reopening. His kiss is deep, aching, soaked in apology. You pull at his hoodie, and he helps you out of your clothes with hands that remember everythingâevery freckle, every scar, every place you used to let him in.
He touches you like you might slip through his fingers again. Fingers grazing your ribs like a benediction, lips following like he's asking forgiveness with every breath. The inside of your knee, the curve of your belly, the dip of your collarboneâhe maps them all like heâs afraid youâve changed, and desperate to prove you havenât.
When he finally sinks into you, it feels like grief.
He gasps like heâs never breathed without you.
You wrap your limbs around him like armor. Like prayer. You hold on because if you let go, you might disappear.
He moves like he remembers. Slow. Deep. Devotional. Not trying to make you comeâtrying to make you stay.
Your eyes lock. His forehead rests against yours. And itâs not lust anymore. Itâs penance.
âIâm sorry,â he whispers, voice threadbare. âFor everything I lost. For everything I made you carry alone.â
Your fingers press to his jaw, tremble against his cheek. âYou donât get to be sorry now,â you breathe. âBut donât stop. Please⌠donât stop pretending this could still be real. Donât stop making me feel like Iâm not the only one who kept the light on.â
You fall together like a storm collapsing. No crescendo, no clean ending. Just trembling limbs and bitten lips and all the years that werenât spoken finally breaking open between you.
After, he doesnât move. Youâre tangled up, forehead to collarbone, his thumb brushing soft circles into your spine like heâs trying to say everything he canât.
You donât speak. Words feel too small.
You fall asleep in the bed where he first kissed your shoulder, in the bed where you cried alone, in the bed where you dreamed heâd come back.
And this time, when you wake up, heâs still there.
His eyes already on you.
Like he never stopped looking.
---
The morning light is soft, gray around the edges. You blink slowly, still tucked against him, your body sore in ways that feel almost sacred. Thereâs a pause before reality settles, before memory floods back in. His chest rises beneath your palm. Heâs warm. Solid. Still here.
You sit up gently, careful not to disturb the quiet. But Patrick stirs anyway, eyes still on you like he was never asleep.
âGood morning,â he murmurs, voice low, gravelly.
You nod. Swallow. You donât trust your voice yet.
Thereâs a beat. He doesnât push. Doesnât ask what last night meant. Just watches you, eyes soft, full of something he doesnât dare taking the risk of naming. Something close to hope.
You slip out of bed and grab your robe, tying it loosely as you move through the morning light. You half-expect him to vanish while your back is turned, but when you glance over your shoulder, heâs still sitting there, eyes trailing after you like they never stopped.
You make coffee with shaking hands. The kitchen smells like warmth and cinnamon, the candle you forgot to blow out last night still flickering quietly on the counter. You pour two mugs, unsure if the gesture means too much or too little.
When you return to the bedroom, Patrick is sitting on the edge of the bed, shirt tugged over his head, hair wild from sleep. He looks up like he wants to say something, but doesnât.
Instead, you hand him the mug.
He takes it like itâs sacred, fingers brushing yours with a hesitation that feels reverent, his gaze catching on yours with something close to disbelief. Like heâs afraid the mug might vanish if he holds it too tightly.
And then, footsteps.
Tiny ones.
The soft shuffle of socks against hardwood. A bedroom door creaking open. Leviâs voice drifting down the hallway: âMama?â
Your breath hitches.
Patrick stands quickly, not panicked but present, like he knows this is delicate. You move toward the hallway just as Levi turns the corner, hair a mess of curls, pajama shirt twisted from sleep. He rubs one eye and stares at you, then at Patrick behind you.
He blinks once. Steps forward.
And then, small and serious:
âAre you gonna be my daddy again?â
You exhale like someone just punched the air out of your lungs.
Patrick lowers to a knee, eyes level with Leviâs. âHey, buddy,â he says, voice soft, unsure.
Levi looks at him like heâs made of starlight and storybooks. Like heâs a wish come true.
Patrickâs throat works. âI⌠Iâd really like to be. If you want me to.â
Levi nods, serious, like itâs a very important decision. Then he climbs onto the bed and curls himself into your side, tiny fingers finding Patrickâs hand.
You donât say anything.
You canât.
But when Patrick squeezes Leviâs hand, and Levi doesnât let go, something in you cracks open.
And for the first time, the pieces donât scatter.
They start to fall into place.
---
Later, after breakfast is made and half-eaten, after Levi has gone back to coloring at the kitchen tableâhis tongue poking out the corner of his mouth in concentrationâPatrick lingers by the sink, coffee mug long since empty.
You wash dishes beside him, quiet.
âI used to lie,â he says suddenly, voice barely above a whisper. âTo everyone. About why I left. About what I was doing. About you.â
You pause, fingers wet and soapy in the sink.
He keeps going, eyes fixed on a spot just above the faucet. âI told people I wasnât ready. That I needed time. That I didnât want to hold you back. But the truth is⌠I was scared. Not of being a father. Not really. I was scared of what youâd see when everything in me started to rot.â
Your chest tightens.
âI thought if I stayed, Iâd make you miserable. That youâd look at me one day and see someone you pitied. Someone who used to be something. And I couldnâtâI couldnât take that.â
The silence blooms, wide and brittle, as Levi hums softly in the background, his small voice painting innocence across the sharp edges of the truth hanging in the air.
âI would sit outside playgrounds,â Patrick says, his voice thinner now. âIâd watch kids run around and wonder if any of them were mine. I used to see this one boy who had curls just like Leviâs. And Iâd imagine what it would feel like if he looked up and called me Dad.â
You stare at the bubbles in the sink. They pop, one by one.
âI thought I was punishing myself by staying away,â he says. âBut it was cowardice. It was me choosing the version of pain that didnât involve looking you in the eye.â
You set the dish down. Turn off the water. And you say nothing, because thereâs nothing to say. Because guilt is not a gift, and grief is not a currency. But hearing itâletting him say itâsomehow makes it heavier.
And still.
You donât ask him to leave.
But you do walk outside.
The morning has shifted. Clouded over. You sit on the steps, arms wrapped around yourself, the chill crawling into your sleeves. You hear the door creak behind you and then close softly. He doesnât follow. He knows better.
Thereâs a lump in your throat the size of a fist.
You think about all the versions of yourself he never met. The woman in the hospital bed, sweat-soaked and screaming, holding Levi against her chest with shaking arms and blood beneath her nails. The woman who sat awake at three a.m. night after night, bouncing a colicky baby in the quiet because there was no one else to pass him to. The woman who pawned her violin, sold the gold bracelet her grandmother gave her, whispered Iâm sorry to her own reflection just to keep the lights on. The woman who smiled at Levi even when her eyes were raw from crying. The woman who learned how to fold pain into lullabies and grief into grocery lists. You became a mosaic in his absenceâsharp-edged and shining. You held yourself together with coffee spoons and lullabies, with baby monitors and the ache of resilience. You wore your grief like a second skin, stretched tight and stitched through with hope you never admitted aloud.. And now he wants to stay. The one in the hospital bed. The one who learned how to swaddle with trembling fingers. The one who sold her violin to pay for rent. The one who laughed, even when it hurt, because Levi was watching.
You think about what it cost to become someone whole without him.
He didnât get to see the becoming.
And now he wants to stay.
You close your eyes. Rest your forehead on your knees. Breathe.
Footsteps approach. Small ones.
Levi climbs into your lap without a word. He curls into you like he did when he was smaller, like heâs always known how to find your center.
âDo you still love him?â he asks.
You press your lips to his hair. âI donât know what to do with it,â you whisper.
Leviâs voice is soft. âMaybe we can love him different now. Like a new story.â
And something inside you breaks.
Not the way it used to.
Not shattering.
Cracking open.
You look toward the door, and through the window, you see Patrick still standing thereâhis forehead resting against the frame, like heâs praying to the quiet.
You donât run to him. You donât forgive him.
But you do stand.
And this time, when you open the door, you leave it open behind you.
Just enough to tell him⌠âtry again.â
-----
tagging: @kimmyneutron @babyspiderling @queensunshinee @hanneh69 @jamespotteraliveversion @glennussy @awaywithtime @artstennisracket @artdonaldsonbabygirl @blastzachilles @jordiemeow
death with no dignity; patrick zweig
â amethyst and flowers on the table
is it real or a fable ?
well, i suppose, a friend is a friend
and we all know how this will end â - sufjan stevens
cw (18+) : mentions of depressive symptoms, masturbation, and heavy yearning.
wc : 1.9 k
When Patrick was eighteen, he killed a doe.Â
It was an accident, it truly was, in every sense of the word.Â
He had been driving home from Artâs house around 11 PM and had been playing some stupid song on the radio. Heâd thrashed his head and slapped his palms against the leather steering wheel to the stupid beat, carefree and unassuming. It had been so dark, and he was distracted, and then suddenly the deer was in the center of the road. Big, black, shiny eyes and pointed ears and a deep brown coat. She was beautiful. For the split moment that he had before the impact, thatâs all he could think about.Â
He didnât have enough time to swerve and avoid her because heâd been speeding, and everything afterwards happened in slow-motion. The skidding squeal of his tires against the asphalt. His heart lurching in his ribcage, almost enough to make him feel sick. The harsh jolt of the car and the brutal sound of metal hitting muscle, followed by the animal being sent hurtling a few feet forward and onto her side, accompanied by the painful sting of the seatbelt digging into his chest. When the car finally came to a stop, Patrick froze. His hands stuck to the wheel, shaking, and his eyes were peeled open wide as he stared through the windshield at the lifeless creature heâd just hit with his car. He was practically panting. He didnât quite recall ever being so scared in his entire life, not even when heâd played his first professional match. Not even when heâd nearly drowned one summer years ago when he and Art were swimming in a lake upstate.Â
Heâd never killed anything before. Not like that.Â
The aftermath was a blur. He almost called the cops to let them know that there was a large, dead animal in the road on so-and-so street, but he didnât. To this day, he doesnât really know why. Maybe it was all of the adrenaline. Maybe it was all of the guilt. Regardless, heâd mumbled a soft, âOh, god, Iâm sorry,â and then slowly pulled off and around it. He never told his parents, or anyone for that matter, that he had cried so hard on the rest of the drive home that he felt lightheaded by the time he was in the driveway.Â
Mommy and Daddy Zweig offeredâno, beggedâto get him a new car the next evening (when they got back from Greece) because his hood and bumper were horribly dented, but Patrick had refused. Heâd laughed off the incident in front of them, and then waited until they went to bed to slink into their massive garage and pick all of the little tufts of fur out of the vehicleâs grille.
Heâd traced his fingertips along the indentations and the scratches in the paint and blinked away the wetness clouding his vision. Tried to mentally retrace his steps that night, too. What if he hadnât been listening to that stupid song? What if he hadnât left his best friendâs place so late? What if heâd been quicker? Smarter? Luckier?Â
Could things be different? Could he have spared a life?Â
Could he have spared the victim, and himself, the pain?
Patrickâs twenty-one now, and he does a lot of retracing his steps these days.
Tennis is his priority; heâs always on the court, or in a car or a bus thatâs traveling to a court of some kind. Forehands, backhands, volleying, serving, smashesâitâs all he lives and breathes. And, of course, itâs easier now to focus on tennis when he no longer has friends.Â
Art and him haven't talked in many months (has it really been years?), not since Tashiâs knee had gotten injured during that match at Stanford.Â
Fuck that fucking match. And fuck them.Â
He didnât need them, he was doing just fine on his own.Â
If his best friend of over a decade wanted to kick him to the curb like he was nothing more than a dog that had bitten him a smidge-too-hard to be loved, then whatever. If his grotesquely-talented girlfriend wanted to break up with him because he didnât want to be treated like a lesser athlete nor sit in her shadow, then fine. Heâd enjoy his tennis career and roll freely in the expendable income he was sure to continue collecting.
But thatâs not really who Patrick is.Â
And so he canât help but lie awake at night, trying to pin-point where things went wrongâwhat he could have done to prevent this outcomeâand tracing the indentations and scratches in his relationships that surely were only indicative of his faults. Compulsively picking at the tufts nestled in the wreckage. Eyeing the bloody brutalization, punishing himself by reliving the sting.
Sometimes he drags his fingertips over some of his old, banged-up rackets that he can't bear to get rid of, and he thinks about all of it. Tennis academy days with the shy, funny blonde kid that he became close with from day one. Learning and teaching and discussing with him all of the typical adolescent lessons that gave way to life outside of the bubble. Doubles matchesâso many doubles matches. So many wins. First beers, first girlfriends, first cigarettes, first kisses. They shared everything with one another and they (almost neurotically) timed their experiences to happen around the same time so that they'd be able to talk to each other about them afterwards. As they got a bit older though, Patrick began to realize that he was feeling things for Art that he probably wasnât supposed to tell him about. And he usually told Art everything.
That was his first mistake, he thinks, like when he hadnât heeded the speed limit that night. Or, maybe, that was like playing the stupid song on the radio and going home late. It was the start of their untimely end.Â
When heâs in one of his usual depressive spirals, the kind in which he canât seem to find his appetite and he forgets to shower and he ignores his managerâs texts, he argues with himself about what exactly could be considered the âimpactâ. Was it when he had cheekily served like Art during that one casual training session, ball to the neck of the racket, confirming that he had slept with Tashi and thus beginning the festering of that awful jealousy in his friend? Or was it when he praised her in front of Art before her match in the singles tournament that fateful afternoon, igniting his friend's interest? Patrick remembers the look that glossed over Artâs eyes when he first caught sight of her; he had looked at her and suddenly Patrick felt like heâd been forgottenâlike heâd melted into those bleachers and disappeared. He canât really blame him, Tashi was talented and beautiful and ambitious and confident and matureâshe was everything that Art steadfastly admired in a person. She was twice the person that Patrick had been back then.
Usually though, he comes to the painful conclusion that the impact was certainly the day of the Stanford match. More specifically, it was when Art had yelled at him for the first time in the entirety of their friendship.Â
âPatrick, get the fuck out!âÂ
Those four words ring through his head on the worst of days.
He knew heâd fucked up by not pushing aside his pride and going to support Tashi after their fight, so he could pretty easily swallow down the discomfort that came with being yelled at by her. They yelled at each other pretty often when they got into their little spats, it was relatively normal. But god.. It was so much different when it was him. Patrick's muscles had locked up; he was shaking and breathing hard like heâd just run a marathon, able to see nothing but that pair of angry, familiar eyes. The vitriol that came spurting from the blondeâs mouth was like the worst toxin heâd ever known. It paralyzed him and began to rot his insides from that very moment on. And then all of the suffocating memories came flooding back as he turned and walked out of that campus health center.Â
Giggling under blankets with a flashlight, reading comics until the sun started to come up. Practicing for hours on the courts at the academy, sometimes until they both got sunburns and heatstroke. Sleeping in the same bed on summer nights at Patrickâs houseâtiredly watching the way Artâs chest rose and fell with each of his breaths and trying not to look at his lips. Holding each other when Artâs parents got divorced and he cried so hard that he got a nosebleed. Bandaging each otherâs blisters. Wearing each otherâs clothes. Having each other's back.
He doesnât understand what he did to truly deserve being treated like that in the end by Art.
Heâd been a good decent friend, hadnât he?Â
How could Artâs infatuation with her be enough to snuff out everything that they built together? It was supposed to be the two of them for the rest of their lives. Sure, they could each get married, pursue a career, have kids, but at the end of the day it was always meant to be them, wasn't it? Fire and Ice? Did he get that part wrong?
He habitually questions how much he really meant to him.
When Patrick does muster up the strength to drag himself to the shower, he generally stays in there for at least an hour. âWaste of waterâ be damned. He closes his eyes and lets the warmth run over his hair and his naked body. He presses his back to the cold shower wall and rubs his eyes until he sees white flashes dancing in the darkness. Itâs not uncommon for his mind to wander back to you-know-who. In fact, thatâs whoâs usually on his mind whenever heâs not trying harder to forget. And itâs easy for Patrick to fixate on those blurry white flashes and suddenly see yellow curls, bright blue irises, deep smile lines, flushed cheeks. Breath smelling of that peppermint gum he always chewed. The sound of his nervous laughter and joyous cheers. Patrick would know him even if all of his senses were somehow dulled or taken from him. He would know Art by the feel of his soul breathing life into his own. He would know him, surely.
And maybe itâs an act of pure filth and desperation, or one of flesh-tearing grief, but many times Patrick winds up touching himself. Slow, steady, tenderâthe way he assumes Art touches Tashi. The way he had always wanted to touch Art, though he never even gathered the courage to try to hold his hand. He thumbs his weeping slit and keens as he feels the sadness and arousal roiling in his gut. He chokes on little moans that sound like sobs that sound like screams. Heâs starved. How is it possible to miss someone when theyâre everywhere? He thinks itâs funny that heâs forgotten what Artâs speaking voice sounds like but also refuses to watch any of his latest interviews on TV. He doesnât want to see if thereâs a ring on his finger, and he certainly doesnât want to think about all of the ways Tashi gets to keep him as her own. He was mine, he unfairly thinks as he strokes himself under the scalding water, he was mine and I loved him and you lured him in and then he was gone.
The orgasm usually comes quick, spurred on by the near-lethal dose of petulant thought. He feels his thighs tremble and then his hand starts to lose its rhythm and then heâs crying out as he comes hard over his curled fingers. Sticky, clotted, putrid evidence of his lack of control. When he finally opens his eyes again, salt spills down his ruddy skin from wet lashes. He gets dizzy from the heat and the steam, he feels like heâs choking on all of it. He brings his dirtied hand under the showerhead and watches as his mess is rinsed away, down the drain in a gurgling spiral. It takes everything in him not to collapse.
âOh, god, Iâm sorry,â he whispers, before he forces himself out of the bathroom and collapses in a wet heap over his bed. His skin sticks to the sheets and makes him feel like some sort of dirty, beastly thing that crawls out of swamps and swallows up all of the good it can touch. He figures that the feeling is not far off from the truth.
When Patrick was eighteen, he killed a doe.Â
And that doe followed him for the rest of his life.
note : to anyone who's ever had a childhood crush on their best friend. to anyone struggling with the grief.
This was intentionally written to be a bit "all over the place"; I wanted to show how scattered Patrick's thoughts can be. Also I love, love, love Tashi, I just think Patrick maybe sometimes (early on, before he helped her cheat) blamed her for his and Art's split for unjust reasons.
tags : @venusaurusrexx @tashism @grimsonandclover @diyasgarden @weirdfishesthoughts @gibsongirrl @newrochellechallenger2019 @jordiemeow @artstennisracket @cha11engers âĄ
today I offer you this. Tomorrow? Who knows đЎ
THIS SCENEEEEEEEEEEE
what is wrong with you
connor murphy perchance with a cheerleader reader who secretly has the same struggles and they bond over that if not them js getting high together and they confess
french exchange student reader with ATP maybe new kid in the academy or player against Tashi, wanting to get all close!!!
hiiii!!! i loved your requests so much. hereâs the connor one first đ¤ umm also im sorry i kind of went overboard and felt angsty⌠donât hate me
tw: depression, suicide
â
the thing about being a cheerleader is that people assume youâre always happy.
like glitter and pom-poms are a substitute for serotonin. like cartwheels and short skirts cancel out the quiet panic that curls into your ribs at 3am.
but you know better.
and so does he.
connor murphy sits like a shadow at the edge of the world (or at least the school parking lot), head down, eyes daring anyone to look at him too long. you donât mean to sit next to him. it just happens. like gravity. or like bad decisions.
he looks over, slow and suspicious.
you offer a half-smile and a joint.
âworldâs ending,â you say, as explanation.
he shrugs. âcool.â
you pass the joint back and forth like a secret. like a lifeline. smoke curls around you both, and the silence between you shifts from awkward to gentle.
âyou donât seem like the type, you know,â he says finally.
you raise an eyebrow.
âto sit on the ground with me. and do drugs. and not cry about it.â
you laugh. âgive it time.â
when the stars come out, youâre still there. his head tilted back, yours resting against his shoulder in a way that feels accidentally on purpose. you tell him things. not the big thingsâjust breadcrumbs. like how you hate pep rallies. how you once cried during halftime. how you wish you could just⌠not be this person.
he blinks. slow, languid. âsame.â
and itâs stupid. and sweet. and kind of sad. and itâs the first time you feel understood in forever.
âhey,â you say softly, voice barely louder than the wind.
he turns to look at you, like the moonâs caught in his eyes.
âi think iâm gonna like you.â
a pause.
âyeah?â
âyeah.â
âokay. good. me too. but like⌠donât tell anyone. i have a reputation to uphold. iâm pretty popular.â
you grin. âoh yeah?â
âoh yeah.â
the joint burns out. the night drips quietly on.
â
you start seeing him more. not on purpose, at first. just⌠by coincidence. or fate. or whatever cosmic joke put the angriest boy in school and the sparkliest girl in the same orbit.
at lunch, you start sitting near each other. not at the same table, not yet. just close enough for the air to feel familiar. for a certain electricity to linger.
he nods at you. you nod back.
itâs stupid. it means everything.
eventually, he lets you into his world. little pieces at a time.
like how his mom keeps pushing therapy schedules into his hands like theyâre birthday gifts. how his dad barely speaks unless itâs disappointment wearing a polo.
how his little sister, zoe, plays four instruments, volunteers at a vet clinic, and still finds time to win at everything.
âthey love her,â he says, exhaling smoke out the passenger window. âlike, itâs easy. natural. with me, itâs likeâi have to earn it. and even when i do⌠itâs not enough.â
you donât say anything at first. you just reach over and squeeze his sleeve.
later, you say, âmy mom makes me smile in photos even when iâve just had a panic attack.â
and he looks at you like youâre the only real thing in the whole fucking world.
you hang out on rooftops. in empty stairwells. behind the bleachers, where the grass is too long and the world feels far away. you skip class sometimes. not together, but somehow you both end up in the same hallway, sprawled out on the floor like fallen angels.
one day, he mutters, âiâm supposed to be this freak. the scary one. i hear what they say. maybe theyâre right.â
you tilt your head. âdo you want to be?â
he hesitates. ânot always. not really.â
âthen donât be. be whatever you want with me.â
he stares at you like heâs waiting for the punchline. it doesnât come. just your hand brushing against his. just the ache of being seen.
he starts texting you. a lot.
everything felt perfect. a perfect friendship, a perfect maybe-more-than-friendship.
until it finally snaps.
youâre curled up together in the backseat of his car, parked under the old oak trees near the edge of town where the stars donât have to compete with streetlights. the blunt burns slow between you, smoke curling like a lullaby.
heâs lying with his head in your lap, eyes half-lidded, mouth a soft line.
âdo you ever feel,â he says, âlike you were made for sadness?â
you comb your fingers through his hair. âmaybe. but then you happened. and now i think i was made for you.â
he looks up at you, eyes glassy but focused. his lips twitch into something thatâs almost a smile.
you expect a joke. a typical connor deflection. something sarcastic to break the tense moment.
instead, he says, âi love you.â
quiet. like itâs the first true thing heâs ever said.
your heart stutters. the world stills.
you whisper, âi love you too.â
and for a momentâjust a momentâit feels like everything might be okay. like the universe hit pause on the bad parts and gave you this night, this breath, this boy who sees you like no one else does.
he kisses you, and itâs slow, deep. his lips taste like weed and that raspberry slurpee heâs always got and something saltierâregret, maybe, or all the things he canât say out loud.
his hand moves to your cheek, unsure, like heâs checking if youâre real.
you are. you lean into him like gravityâs made of need.
your fingers curl in the fabric of his hoodie, pulling him closerânot desperate, just aching.
the kiss deepens a little. not fast. just fuller. like an exhale youâve both been holding since the first time you looked at each other and didnât look away.
you fall asleep with your head on his chest, dreaming of maybe.
â
friday, no text.
saturday, nothing.
you send a stupid tiktok. no reply.
you try calling. voicemail.
you tell yourself heâs just spiraling. that he does this sometimes.
but not like this. never this quiet.
by monday, heâs not in school. you wait by your locker. you wait in the usual hallway. you check the parking lot.
his car isnât there.
your texts pile up.
you start asking people. zoe doesnât answer her phone. neither does his mom.
your chest feels like itâs collapsing in on itself.
you hear whispers in the hallways. an ambulance? a body found?
no.
he could be fine. he could be in the hospital. he could be anywhere. he could beâ
you call again. straight to voicemail.
you leave one more message.
voice shaking.
tears falling.
âconnor. please. i love you. you said you loved me too. you promised.â
â
eventually itâs confirmed, a monotone, grim announcement over the intercom.
a hushed assembly.
teachers blinking back tears they never showed him in life. posters about mental health taped crooked on hallway walls. a vigil with candles that donât stop anything from hurting.
no one knows he kissed you like he was saying goodbye. no one knows you held him the night before. no one knows he said he loved you with the stars watching.
and now heâs gone, and you canât say any of it without sounding insane.
youâre back in uniform the next week.
lip gloss. ponytail. fake smile stretched like skin too thin.
people pat your shoulder. say vague, hollow things like
âwasnât he that angry kid?â
or
âi didnât know you even talked to him.â
and you nod. and you smile.
and inside, something is rotting.
you go through the motions like a ghost trapped in the wrong body.
pep rallies feel like static. he was the only one who knew you hated them.
your bedroom walls are too quiet.
his last voicemail is still saved on your phone,
but you canât listen to it anymore
because his voice feels like a knife now.
you try to tell your mom youâre sad. she tells you to take a bath.
you try to tell your friends you feel like youâre drowning. they say, âwe miss him too,â but their voices donât crack the same way yours does.
thatâs because they donât know. they donât know you loved him. they donât know he loved you.
they donât know that when he died, he took something from you youâll never get back.
and now youâre stuck.
stuck in this glitter-drenched version of yourself that doesnât fit anymore.
stuck cheering for teams you donât care about.
stuck pretending your heart didnât break in the backseat of his car.
stuck waiting for a text that will never come.
you still walk past that same hallway you always met in. you still glance toward the parking lot.
still half-expect to see him there, hood up, eyes tired, mouth already half-smirking at something only you would understand.
but heâs not. and the worst part?
no one noticed he was your whole world.
and now youâre expected to keep spinning.
taglist of my connor friends
@matchpointfaist @ellaynaonsaturn @elliotlovesmacncheese @newrochellechallenger2019
im about to fucking climax in the pyjama aisle of sainburyâs because yet again theyâve absolutely smashed out a bean flicking collection of pjs
:( i love him im gonna crumple him up
warnings: SMUT 18+, this is a blurb
It almost ends in silence.
That kind of silence that isnât soft or thoughtful or pregnant with meaningâitâs thick, charged, bitter. The kind that fills a car when one person wants to speak and the other refuses to be heard.
Patrickâs hands are clenched on the steering wheel. Knuckles white. Jaw tighter than it needs to be. Youâre staring out the window, blinking hard against the sting in your eyes. Not crying. Not yet.
The fightâif you can call it thatâwasnât loud. It never is with him. Just a deflection here, a shrug there. You asked a simple question. Something like "How are you, really?" Something like "Let me in."
And he did what he always does. Shut the door.
You almost got out when he pulled into your buildingâs lot. Almost left him there, sitting in the blue wash of streetlights with his hands still gripping the wheel like itâs the only thing anchoring him to this earth.
But something in you stayed.
Because even in the worst of itâeven when heâs all teeth and armorâyou can see the boy behind the racket. The one whoâs tired of being hard all the time.
So you twist in your seat.
Heâs still facing forward, and you can see itâthe crack in his armor. The set of his shoulders isnât quite as stubborn. His grip on the wheel is no longer furious, just tight. Like heâs not sure if he should let go.
And you know this version of him.
Youâve seen him at tenâspinning, sharp-tongued, manic with energy he doesn't know where to put. Youâve seen him on the court, teeth bared, eyes wild. Youâve seen him explode and implode all in the same hour.
But youâve also seen him at zero. At nothing. The mornings he canât get out of bed. The press days he skips and blames on jet lag when really, itâs the weight in his chest.
You know how to read his silences. The kinds that ask you to stay even when he wonât say it out loud.
Youâve never wanted to fix him. Youâve just wanted to be there. Wanted to be the one thing in his world that didnât want anything from him.
You speak softly, like youâre talking to a wounded thing. âPatrick, Iâm not trying to fix anything.â
He still doesnât look at you.
âI just wanna know whatâs going on in there,â you add, tapping lightly on the side of your head. âYou donât have to make it nice. You donât even have to make it make sense. I just⌠want to know youâre here.â
Another pause. This one stretches.
He finally exhales through his nose. Barely audible.
âI donât talk about shit like that,â he mutters. âNever have.â
You nod. âYeah. I figured.â You shift, turning to face him fully. âBut you let me be here. Every time. So either you want something real, or you donât. And if you do... I need you to stop pretending you're alone.â
That lands. You see it in the way his fingers loosen on the steering wheel.
And then he finally looks at you.
âI donât know how to do this,â he says.
You blink. âWhat, talk?â
He almost laughs, but it dies in his throat. âYeah. That. All of it.â
âThen donât talk,â you say. âJust let me in.â
And thatâs when you move.
You lean in slowly. Not to comfort. To reach. You press your mouth to hisâsoft, sure, no hesitation. He responds like it hurts. Like it heals. Like heâs been waiting for permission to fall apart.
Your hand slips into his hair. His jaw slackens. The car windows fog.
Itâs not a rush. Not at first.
But soon youâre climbing into his lap, straddling him, your knees bracketing his hips, the console digging into your thigh and neither of you caring. His hands settle on your waist, unsure.
âYou donât have to do anything,â you whisper against his jaw. âJust let me be here.â
And when you grind down, he gasps like heâs breaking.
You kiss him again. Deeper. Messier. Like a promise made with tongue and teeth and breath.
You press your forehead to his and say, âLet me take care of you.â
And when you rock your hips again, when his hands grip you like youâre the only real thing heâs ever held, he lets you.
For onceâhe lets you.
You pull back just enough to look at him. His eyes are heavy, lips parted, chest heaving. You guide him gently, tugging down the waistband of his sweats, freeing him fully. Heâs already slick in your hand, the head flushed, and his breath stutters as you shift your hips.
âCan I?â you murmur.
He nodsâalmost franticâand you line yourself up with shaking fingers.
When you sink down onto him, itâs slow and devastating. Your breath catches at the stretch, the fullness, the feeling of him beneath you, inside you, finally here. His hands clutch at your waist like heâs afraid youâll disappear.
The car is too small for this, too cramped, but it doesnât matter. Your bodies find rhythm anyway. A language made of friction and breath and everything youâve never needed words for.
The smell of his cologne has long faded under the weight of everything elseâsweat, sex, and the faintest trace of smoke from the ashtray by the gearshift. Thereâs a lipstick-stamped cigarette butt half-buried beneath a crumpled parking receipt. He hasnât cleaned this car in months. It smells like late-night drives, like sweatshirts in the backseat, like every fight youâve almost had and every kiss you didnât mean to give.
The cracked vinyl seat beneath your knees sticks to your skin. Somewhere in the background, the faint click of the hazard light ticks like a metronome. The windows fog faster than you can clear them. The Honda rocks with every roll of your hips.
The ceiling liner droops slightly overhead. The rearview mirror is useless now, fogged over and tilted sideways from where his elbow knocked it loose.
None of it matters.
Youâre the only thing that matters.
He curses when your hand returns to where your bodies meet, when your fingers circle just right. You smile, not teasing, just full of something fierce and warm and steady.
âLet me take it,â you whisper. âAll of it. Just for tonight.â
His head falls back. His mouth falls open.
You keep going until heâs shaking. Until heâs saying your name like itâs the only thing left thatâs his.
When he comes, you hold him there. Through it. Around it. Until heâs panting against your neck, hands still gripping your hips like theyâre his last prayer.
You follow a heartbeat later. The kind of release that steals your breath, curls your toes, and makes your chest ache.
And afterâyou donât move.
You just breathe. Let the sweat cool. Let the quiet settle.
You press your palm flat against his chest and feel it thudding wildly beneath your skin.
You donât ask him to say anything. You donât need him to explain.
You hold him the way heâs never let anyone hold himâwithout expectation, without question.
Like softness is a shield.
Like love can be a place to rest.
-----
tagging: @kimmyneutron@babyspiderling @queensunshinee @hanneh69 @jamespotteraliveversion @glennussy @awaywithtime @artstennisracket @artdonaldsonbabygirl @blastzachilles @jordiemeow
talia liked this
warnings: SMUT 18+, porn with very minimal plot
The bass is sticky-sweet and sinful, the kind that slides down your spine and coils low in your stomach. Lights strobe like theyâre trying to catch secrets midair, but none of them land on youâyet.
Youâre leaning against the bar, mouth wrapped around a cherry lollipop and eyes scanning the crowd like youâre on the hunt. But you already know exactly who youâre waiting for.
You havenât seen them in months. Not since New Rochelle. Not since you told them to lose your number, and Patrick laughed like it was a challenge. Since Art told you, with terrifying calm, that youâd come crawling back. Since Tashi just kissed your jaw, eyes unreadable, and walked away.
You hadnât planned on seeing them tonight. Youâd heard they were in town for the tournament, sure, but you werenât stalking their schedules anymore. Youâd come out with friends. Youâd worn this dress for yourself. The lollipop had been a joke. A dare. Something stupid.
Except it wasnât a joke. Not really. Everyone who knew you knew the lollipop meant something.
You used to walk onto the court with one in your mouth. Superstition, maybe. Distraction tactic. Or maybe it was just habitâyour particular brand of psychological warfare. Patrick used to call it bait. Tashi called it smart. Art never called it anything. He just stared.
And now theyâre all here.
Art sees you first.
He stops walking mid-stride, mid-laugh. His mouth still shaped around something clever, but no sound comes out. Tashi clocks the shift instantly, turning her head and following his gaze. Her eyes narrow.
Patrick, as always, takes the longest. But when he sees you, his mouth splits into a grin thatâs all teeth and no kindness.
You raise the lollipop to your lips and bite down hard enough to crack it.
They cross the club like gravity. The crowd parts. You should leave. You donât.
âYouâre really here,â Patrick says, breath warm near your temple. âCute dress.â
You twirl the lollipop between your fingers, not looking at him. âI wore it for someone better.â
âYeah?â Tashiâs voice is close, cool, a whisper by your ear. âHowâs that working out for you?â
You turn, smile too-sweet. âPretty well, actually. Until now.â
Art doesn't speak. He just watches you like heâs memorizing something he plans to wreck.
Patrick leans against the bar beside you, close enough that his shoulder brushes yours. âStill sucking on candy like a baby?â
You roll the stick over your tongue, slow and deliberate. âYou're just mad I'm not sucking your dick anymore.â
âNot mad,â he murmurs. âOnly a matter of time.â
Tashiâs hand slides to your hip. Her grip is possessive. Familiar. âWe should talk,â she says, but sheâs already pulling you toward the VIP section, not waiting for permission.
Art finally speaks. âShe doesnât want to talk.â
Patrick snorts. âNot with words, anyway.â
You go because itâs easier than fighting. Because you want to. Because youâve already lost.
The VIP room is low-lit and velvet-lined. Music muffled. Private.
Youâre barely inside before Patrick sits, spreading his legs like heâs home. Art leans against the wall, arms folded, gaze locked on you. Tashi pulls you to the center of the room and turns you to face them.
âOn your knees,â she says softly, like itâs a suggestion. Like you wonât do it unless she asks nice.
You smile, sickly sweet. âI donât take orders.â
Art pushes off the wall. âSure you do. Just not in public.â
You sink. Slowly. Lollipop still between your fingers, now sticky with sweat and anticipation.
Patrick unzips with a lazy smirk. âShow us what that smart mouth is really good for.â
You glance up through your lashes, tongue dragging along your lower lip as you stroke him once, slow and warm, before you wrap your mouth around the head of his cock.
The lollipop clatters to the floor.
Patrick groans. âFuck, I forgot how good you are at this.â
You hum around him, smug, spit already slipping down your chin. He grabs your hair, not hard yet, just enough to let you know whoâs in control.
Tashi kneels beside you, mouth at your ear. âNo teeth. No attitude. Be useful.â
You glance at her, eyes glassy, and she kisses your cheek like she means it.
Art unbuckles his belt with one hand. The sound is enough to make you clench around nothing.
âYouâll take all of us,â he says. âYou love your lollipops, don't you, baby? Weâll see how sweet it tastes with three different flavors in your throat.â
And then thereâs no more pretending.
Patrick thrusts shallow and slow, easing his cock past your lips, but it doesnât stay gentle for long. His grip tightens in your hair, guiding your head, dragging moans out of his throat with every wet, messy stroke.
âDonât stop,â he pants. âYou wanted attention? Fucking take it.â
Tashiâs nails dig into your scalp as she holds you still. Her other hand slips down, trailing under your jaw. âMessy little thing,â she murmurs. âYou look better like this.â
You choke when Patrick pushes deeper. Your eyes water. Spit drips down your chin, onto your chest, and you donât care.
Art is behind you now. You hadnât even noticed him move. His hand slides down the back of your neck, soothing for a secondâbefore he pushes your head farther down Patrickâs length.
âShe can take it,â he mutters. âSheâs done worse with less incentive.â
Patrick grunts. âFuck, Iâm close.â
Tashi pulls you off his cock with a pop just before he comes. You gasp for air, blinking through tears.
âNot yet,â she tells him, then turns to you. âOpen.â
She climbs onto the couch beside Patrick and leans back, spreading her thighs. Her underwear is already discarded. You donât remember when she slipped them off.
She smells like heat and sweat and control. You lower your mouth between her legs, tongue dragging through her slick folds, and she sighs like sheâs been waiting for this since the moment she saw you tonight.
You lap at her slowly at first, just the tip of your tongue, teasing over her clit until she grabs the back of your head and rolls her hips into your face with zero patience.
Her moans are sharp and indulgent. One hand in your hair, the other pinching her nipple beneath the fabric of her shirt. She rides your tongue, thighs clamped around your ears, telling you exactly how she wants it.
"Faster. Right there. Donât you fucking stop."
Your tongue aches. Your jaw burns. You flick and circle and suck until she gasps, trembling, thighs shaking as she clamps down, grinding into your mouth with a low, shuddering whine.
She comes like it hurts, like sheâs been holding it in for far too long. And she keeps you buried between her legs until the aftershocks fade.
When she finally lets you go, youâre breathless, chin glistening, and Patrick is already grabbing you by the jaw.
âYou ready now?â he rasps.
You nod, lips red and swollen.
He fucks your mouth without mercy this time, fast and brutal, his cock slamming against the back of your throat as he growls, âDonât waste a drop.â
You swallow every bit of it.
Art is the last.
He pulls you into his lap on the floor, tilting your head up. His hand strokes your cheekâalmost gentle.
âYou think youâre still in charge?â he whispers, brushing your hair back from your face like he doesnât want to see a single thing in the way.
You nod, breath catching. Barely.
He smiles. âThen prove it. Make me come without using your hands.â
He doesnât push. Doesnât guide. Just waits, watching.
You sink onto him slowly, tasting salt and heat, letting your lips wrap around the flushed head of his cock. He exhales like youâve knocked the wind out of him.
You go slow. Excruciatingly slow. Hollow your cheeks. Twist your tongue on the upstroke. Let him feel every second of your mouth, every flutter of your throat.
âJesus,â he murmurs. His head tilts back, hips twitching upward as you swallow him halfway, then deeper.
You look up at him as he starts to lose controlâhis mouth parted, chest rising fast, hands gripping your hips like heâs fighting the urge to fuck up into your throat.
âKeep going,â he growls, voice wrecked. âDonât fucking stop.â
You donât. You push until your nose brushes the soft skin at the base of him, until his breath catches in his throat and he chokes out your name.
He comes with a groan, hand tight in your hair, cock twitching as you milk every drop from him. You swallow because you want to. Because he told you not to use your hands, and you want him to know you listened.
When he finally lets go, you slump against his thigh, dazed, used, lips slick and trembling.
Tashi crouches down and lifts your chin. âThatâs better,â she says, like itâs a reward.
Patrick chuckles. âTold you it was only a matter of time.â
You close your eyes.
Sticky. Breathless. Satisfied.
And craving another taste.
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